


I Promise - I Swear

by HouseofMacbeth



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseofMacbeth/pseuds/HouseofMacbeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald Cobblepot’s obsession with Jim Gordon was cemented the moment the detective spared his life. Oswald can’t get him out of his head. What happens when Jim can’t get Oswald out of his?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Promise - I Swear

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in the Gotham fandom. Thank you to the Gobblepot presence on Tumblr for all your encouragement.

In the end it actually only takes one word to completely ruin Jim Gordon.

But it’s not _cop_ , or _liar_ , _Barbara_ or even _fire!_

It’s –

“Fuck!”

It hits him like a fist just below his ribs, and it’s all he can do to stifle the rush of air that threatens to escape from his depleted lungs. He can’t stop the full body jerk though, a full and telling flinch, and the movement pulls his hands back from the mouth that had let the unexpected curse fly.

Oswald Cobblepot, a being seemingly constructed purely out of Machiavellian schemes and quiet, sadistic glee, actually looks sheepish.

“My apologies, James,” he says, voice carefully controlled once more. “Mother always said cursing was a sign of a poor vocabulary.” He actually smiles; that small, clever, deceptively boyish smile, and his already bloodied lip splits further. It’s his turn to flinch then, breathing in sharply and raising slim, pale fingers to the tear, pressing against the battered flesh Jim had been touching only seconds ago, before…

He shakes himself mentally and gently slaps Cobblepot’s hands from his face. “You’ll make it worse,” he rumbles, trying his best to sound annoyed. He breathes out through his nose in a huff and returns to his task: cleaning and disinfecting the cuts and scrapes littering the other man’s face. “This better not become a habit; showing up at my door every time somebody throws you around. I’m not your nurse, Oswald.”

Cobblepot actually chuckles, visibly trying not to move his mouth too much. “If I started doing that, James, I might as well move in.”

Jim can only grunt in response, the unbidden image of Cobblepot in too-big pajamas in his kitchen, smiling brightly over a mug of coffee blooming in his mind. It’s jarring and unwelcome, and he waits for the nausea to roll through his stomach.

It never comes.

“You can’t keep showing up here,” he says without looking the other man in the eye. “I’m already screwed enough as it is. You’ve seen to that. One day I’m going to open that door thinking it’s you and I’m going to be greeted with a bullet between my eyes.”

And hand suddenly grips his wrist, squeezing as if in urgency. Jim glances up then to find icy eyes staring at him intently. “I will not allow that to happen.”

Jim can’t help but snort. “I’m just another pawn in your game, Oswald. I’m not stupid. Why would you care if I got knocked off the board a little earlier than expected?” The question is meant to be rhetorical, but there’s a part of Jim that really wants to know. What could an honest cop possibly mean to a conniving little sociopath but utter destruction?

But the grip on his wrist tightens to the point of pain. “I care a great deal, James,” Cobblepot insists, and though Jim has no real point of reference, he would almost swear the other man is being earnest. “Gotham would not be the same without you.” The corners of his mouth turn up a little once more. “After all, what are the shadows without a light to expose them?”

Jim can’t help but stare at him, brain drawing a blank. It isn’t until he feels Cobblepot’s breath on his fingers that he remembers himself and the mission he is trying to accomplish.

“I think you’re good to go,” he says, pulling his hands from the gangster’s face. He throws the bloodied cotton balls in the trash, puts the lid back on the antiseptic. Anything to avoid looking at Cobblepot. “Just try not to get punched in the face on the way home, huh?”

_Why the fuck do you even care, Gordon?_

But then Cobblepot is standing, brushing his hands down the front of his suit, smoothing lines and buttoning buttons. He hesitates for just a second before gently running his thumb along his split lip.

Jim swallows around an inexplicable lump in his throat.

“Thank you, James. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I _always_ appreciate it.” He turns his back and makes for the door, Jim helpless but to watch the characteristic, awkward gate, wondering, not for the first time if Oswald Cobblepot had always walked like that or if one of his many machinations had come back to cripple him.

“Give Barbara my best,” the man calls over his shoulder, and Jim snorts at the jab. There was no way Cobblepot didn’t know about the break he and his fiancée were having. But then that angular face glances over his shoulder, hand on the doorknob and he says, “Sleep _well_ , James.” And it’s not until the door has shut behind him that Jim realizes the statement wasn’t simply well-wishing, but a _promise_.

*****

He sleeps terribly. He is not restless or fearful. He sleeps undisturbed all through the night, but he dreams.

It’s a familiar one, Barbara beneath him in their bed, her hands in his short hair, legs wrapped around his waist. They’re making love – no – they’re fucking. It’s more aggressive than he usually imagines, hips pistoning back and forth, the slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet, moonlit room. Even the kisses are more aggressive, his lips pressed hard to hers, teeth and tongues, his fists clenched in her hair as he hammers into her and it’s not until he tastes blood in the split of her lip that he realizes something is wrong.

Dream-him pulls back from the kiss, but his hips are still moving and it’s not Barbara… it’s not Barbara. It’s…

“James… James… Fuck! Fuck me harder, James! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

And he can’t stop. He can’t stop even as he stares down into icy blue eyes, feels his fingers pull at short black hair, and feels strong calves tighten at his waist, pulling him in deeper.

He can’t stop.

“Oh God,” he whispers and suddenly he’s coming. He’s coming and coming and –

Jim Gordon wakes with a start. He sits straight up in bed, dawn barely breaking through his curtains and he’s sweating terribly. He presses the palms of his hands to his eyes and simply breathes, in and out, in and out while he coaxes his heart rate to slow down. He can feel a residual heat in his skin like a brand, and there’s a dampness in the sheets and –

“Oh, fucking Christ,” Jim heaves when he pulls back the sheets. He stares down at his softening cock and the darkening patch on the sheets and he wonder how the fuck this even happened.

*****

He manages to avoid anything and everything Cobblepot related for almost two damn weeks. Which isn’t to say said weeks have been restful. Far from it. He’s had two drug busts, three brawls in the bull pen (one of which had consisted exclusively of cops), six foot chases, two car chases, one Selina Kyle sighting and too many murders. Jim is physically and emotionally exhausted. He’s barely spoken to Barbara and he still can’t get the sound of Cobblepot cursing out of his head, no matter how much whisky he tries to drown himself in.

The last thing he needs is for the voice that’s been haunting him to suddenly cut through the din of Gotham traffic as he’s walking towards his car.

“James! My good friend...”

Jim actually grits his teeth. His keys are in his hand and he’s inches from his car, his home and a nice stiff drink.

“Oswald,” he sighs, because what else can he do? He turns to find the man alone and beaming at him. He’s dressed impeccably as always, a tailor-made suit hugging his thin frame. An oddly menacing, jet-black umbrella is clutched in his left hand, and he leans on it like a cane. The looming grey clouds hanging over the city seem so ever-present, Jim barely even notices them anymore. “What can the GCPD do for the mob today?”

The blue gaze flicks over Jim’s shoulder. “That’s not your dinner, is it?”

The detective actually glances behind him, having completely forgotten about the pair of hot dogs and can of soda resting on the roof of his car.

“Goodness, James. She’s only been gone a couple weeks and already you’ve fallen back on terrible bachelor habits. Shame shame.”

Jim actually has to turn and brace himself against the side of his car. He’s so damn tired, too tired to be angry. Instead the fatigue mutates his irritation, the past two weeks, the sleepless nights and that goddamn voice cursing in his head every time he closes his eyes and a laugh bubbles out of his throat. It’s a short burst of sound, higher in pitch than normal and verging on hysterical.

When he returns back to face Cobblepot, he finds the man staring at him, looking, for lack of a better word, _concerned_.

“Not that standing here and letting you mock the utter collapse of my relationship isn’t fun, but what do you _want_ , Oswald?”

The other man’s brow scrunches in thought, as if he is weighing his words carefully. He licks his lips and Jim hates himself for tracking the movement. “You’ve been under a lot of stress recently. Can’t I be concerned for your wellbeing?”

And that is just so utterly and completely ridiculous that Jim could just strangle the man right there in the street, but something catches his attention in the corner of his eye.

The car drives by slowly, crawling up the street in comparison to the rest of the traffic, and something in Jim’s stomach knots, even before the windows roll down in unison and the meager sun glints off the barrel of a gun.

“GET DOWN!” he screams at the people on the sidewalk. Cobblepot’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open in a bizarre freeze-frame moment before Jim tackles him to the ground and covers his body with his own.

Then the world erupts all around them. Screams tear through the air as fast as the bullets. Jim’s barely aware of Cobblebot beneath him, of the slim hands clutched desperately in his dress shirt until a particularly loud crack hits his ears and a searing pain carves itself across his forehead. He feels the gasp of the other man rather than hears it, and then there’s a warm wetness pouring down his face. For a moment, he can’t remember what’s happening. The world fuzzes out around him. The only thing he can feel is a hand grabbing the back of his head and pulling it down, down to rest against the shuddering chest of another person.

He can’t see. Everything is red and black, soft and wet. Everything is muddled noise; screaming, chaos. There’s another hand now, at his waist. It’s sliding over his hip. Caressing? Searching. His police radio. Individual sounds start to come back in waves, ebbing and flowing like the tide. He thinks he can make out words now, which means he’s probably not dead. He hears a frantic voice shout out what sounds like an address and the ever important phrase that sends all police officers scrambling, no matter what side of the law they really played for: _Shots fired, officer down!_

And then he’s being moved, pushed gently off of the body below him and onto his back. Even the grey sky is too much light for his eyes. He’s got a pounding headache and touches his fingers to his forehead. He’s rewarded with heat and pain, and he pulls back his hand to find his fingers coated in blood.

The voice that had called for help is saying something again. He can see movement on his right, shifting until it’s over top of him, blocking out the stray rays of sunlight. There are hands on his neck and face, touching everywhere except his forehead. They’re cool and soft. Gentle… it makes him want to sleep…

“Fucking Christ! JAMES!”

Jim’s eyes shoot back open and reality crashes back into his consciousness.

“Os... wald?”

There’s frantic movement all around him, racing in and out of his line of vision and a wave of nausea rolls through him so suddenly that he barely has time to roll onto his side before he’s puking up coffee that had already been bad the first time he tasted it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Cobblepot gasps. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. “They’re coming. They’re coming, James. Just hold on.” The hands are back, then. One gripping his arm, the other rubbing spastic circles between his shoulder blades.

“You gotta go.” It’s not what he expects to say first when his voice returns to him. It’s hardly more than a gravely gurgle, but Cobblepot understands. He understands and he actually protests.

“James, I…” The sirens continue wailing, getting ever closer. “I can’t just… just leave you like this.” The hands have stopped their comforting movements and now grip him almost painfully.

Jim fights to keep his thoughts together, breathing hard through his sour mouth. “Cops… cops’ll be here any minute. If they find you here…” He lets the threat hang. “I’ll be ok. They’re almost here. You gotta go, Oswald. Go.”

“But - ”

_“Go!”_

The hands give him one last squeeze before disappearing, but not before Jim imagines a feather light touch on the back of his head. Then his radio is shoved into his hand and he’s alone, with only the sound of a retreating, awkward run echoing down the pavement to console him.

*****

They keep him in the hospital overnight, just to be sure. He dozes in and out after the doctors assure themselves there are no injuries to his head besides the flesh wound. He’s very lucky, they tell him. If the bullet had been just a little to the right, well, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Harvey actually comes to see him. He even takes off his hat when he enters the room. It’s very bizarre and Jim starts to wonder again if maybe he really is dead, despite what the doctors have told him.

His partner tells him that a few pedestrians had been hit in the attack, but no one was killed. Everyone was recovering in different rooms of the hospital. Everyone was going to be okay. He tells him his near-death experience actually earned him a couple days off and that Harvey himself was considering getting into a shootout so he could have a few days paid vacation. He tells them they don’t have a lead on the shooters yet but they’re checking surveillance cameras. He tells him they won’t get away with it.

He asks how the hell Jim could already have flowers when he’s only been in the hospital for twelve hours.

That part of the conversation gets Jim’s attention. He turns his head as much as he can to see a gorgeous bouquet of black and purple flowers on his bedside table. There’s no note attached, but Jim knows who they’re from. A heavy feeling comes to rest just beneath his belly button.

Harvey asks if Jim wants him to call Barbara.

Jim stares and the flowers and says no.

*****

He’s only been home for three hours when the knock comes. Jim’s almost impressed he waited so long.

“James,” Oswald breathes, and Jim could swear he can actually see the weight lift from Cobblepot’s shoulders. He steps aside, holding the door open so the smaller man can enter. He’s carrying several bags and the smell of garlic, oregano and tomato sauce fills the apartment.

“Forgive the assumption,” he says over his shoulder, setting the bags down on the kitchen table. “I figured that if you had already resorted to ‘street meat’ as it were, your refrigerator must be rather empty.” He begins pulling things from the bag and the smells get stronger. Jim’s stomach rumbles in response. “I hope you like Italian.”

“I got your flowers,” is all Jim can say in response.

The statement makes Cobblepot pause, hands about to descend back into the takeout bag. Instead he turns, and he looks as uncertain as Jim has ever seen him.

“Did you like them?” The question isn’t leading or rhetorical; it’s so damn genuine Jim feels his pulse quicken.

He looks pointedly across the room until Cobblepot follows his gaze. The beautiful bouquet sits on a small table at the end of the hall, just outside his bedroom. It looks almost ethereal in the glow of the setting sun. Jim can actually hear the other man’s sharp intake of breath.

“Yeah,” he says, voice oddly hoarse, “I did.”

It actually takes Oswald Cobblepot, professional schemer, a moment to come back to himself. When he does, he pointedly does not look Jim in the face, returning instead to unpacking the meal he has brought, but the detective doesn’t miss the colour in his cheeks.

“I hope I’m not interrupting. It’s just, hospital food is awful and clearly you can’t be trusted to provide yourself a meal that wouldn’t horrify a health inspector, and I’m working in a restaurant these days and I thought, well…”

He’s babbling. He must know it, because his cheeks are getting even redder and his movements a little less coordinated. He’s taken to wrestling with the lid of a container when Jim decides to put him out of his misery.

“I was just about to change my bandage, actually.” Cobblepot finally turns again to look at him and Jim gestures unnecessarily to his forehead, feeling like a bit of a heel even as he does it. Goddamnit, maybe he does have a serious head injury.

But the news seems to spark something in Cobblepot because he practically jumps to attention. “Let me! I mean, well, heaven knows you’ve tended to enough of my wounds. It’s the least I can do to return the favour.”

Jim doesn’t even get the chance to protest. Cobblepot takes off for the bathroom, shuffling as fast as his bad leg will allow and Jim can think of nothing else to do but drop down onto the couch and try to wrap his head around what the hell is happening. There’s fantastic-smelling food on his table, gorgeous flowers next to his bedroom door and a criminal rooting through his bathroom for a first-aid kit so that he can patch up the cop he insists on looking after.

Yes. Definitely a head injury. It was the only logical explanation. He was actually in a coma right now, imagining everything.

He was imagining Cobblepot returning from the bathroom, carrying the little white box. He was imagining him setting it on the couch next to Jim. He was imagining Cobblepot kneeling between his splayed legs, reaching for his face…

“Oswald,” Jim breaths, afraid to say anything else. He’s rooted to the spot on the couch now, rendered completely immobile by the man on his knees in front of him.

“You saved me,” Cobblepot whispers, seemingly to himself. His clever blue eyes are focused just above Jim’s as he gently peels the tape of the bandage away from skin. “You keep saving me. Tell me why. I need to know.”

“I can’t kill you. You know that,” is all Jim can say. He’s not prepared for this conversation, but he’s pinned. His heart is beating so hard he fears the other man will hear it.

“But you could have let me die. It wouldn’t have been the same.” The antiseptic is cool and biting against his wound, but Jim refuses to flinch any more. “Your conscience would have been clear. There would have been no blood on your hands. Why did you save me, James?”

“I… I don’t know.” Everything Cobblepot has said is true. If he had just left him standing there agog on the sidewalk, there was a good chance that another cog in Gotham’s vicious underworld machine would be in the morgue and not… and not bringing him fucking flowers and dinner.

The idea of Oswald Cobblepot cold and alone on metal slab, no matter what he’s done, makes something ache in Jim’s chest and he really wishes he could just understand what the fuck is happening…

Cobblepot looks like he wants to press harder for answers, but instead he pulls a fresh bandage from the first aid kit and gingerly presses it to Jim’s forehead. He’s close, closer to Jim than necessary, and he can smell the man’s cologne; something cold and almost minty. Jim’s pulse picks up just a little faster as he follows the bob of the Adam’s apple a hairsbreadth from his mouth.

Then there’s a sudden pressure against his forehead and Jim jumps. “Ah, shit!”

“Oh my God! Sorry! Sorry! _Fuck!_ I - ”

The blood rushes to Jim’s dick so fast his vision actually swims. There’s a roaring in his ears like a freight train is blowing through his skull and he can’t seem to focus on anything except his hands gripping Cobblepot by his lapels and pulling him so close they’re nose to nose.

Those icy eyes are wide and the panting breathes punching out of the smaller man are hot against Jim’s lips. Hands come up to circle his wrists, not pushing or pulling, just… holding on for dear life.

“James?” There’s a tremble in his name and goddamn if it doesn’t make Jim’s blood fucking boil in his veins.

“Say it again,” he rumbles, staring at the man’s mouth, silently daring him.

“I… I’m _sorry_ ,” he whimpers.

“No,” Jim snarls, and he shakes the man, just a little, just once. “I want to hear you _swear_. I want you to _curse_ me.”

He knows he sounds fucking crazy, and he wishes he could blame the gunshot wound to the head but he can’t. Cobblepot’s voice, his curses, are a worm at the heart of his apple. It’s been eating away at him for weeks, rotting his core, making him weak. It was only a matter of time before the worm broke through his skin and revealed its ruin.

Cobblepot is still staring at him, but Jim can see the cogs moving behind those clever eyes. Cool fingertips twitch against the inside of his wrists, ghosting over the thin, sensitive skin there and Jim’s breath is coming so fast now he feels like he could pass out.

“I…” Cobblepot stops and licks his lips, scrunches his eyes closed tight before opening them again and staring into Jim with such an intensity that he stops breathing altogether.

There’s a tug on Jim’s wrists, pulling him impossibly closer, close enough that Cobblepot’s lips brush his own when he finally growls, “ _Fuck you_ , James.”

Before Jim even realizes what he’s doing he’s standing up, fists still clenched in Cobblepot’s shirt and he’s throwing the man onto the couch so hard he _bounces_. There’s an _oomph_ of surprise from the smaller man that quickly turns into a keening moan when Jim throws himself on top of him.

“Oh my God,” Cobblepot gasps, hands everywhere at once, pulling and pulling. “You’re… you’re so - ”

Jim pushes the other man’s legs apart and grinds his aching dick into Cobblepot’s – into Oswald’s crotch, turning the other man’s words into absolute gibberish.

He’s hard too. Jim can feel it. It should freak him out. _All of this_ should freak him right the fuck out but he can’t seem to process anything except the noises Oswald is making. Little mewls and groans echoing through the apartment, halting only when Jim finally crushes their mouths together.

Hands fly to his throat, finally settling on a single destination, only to go to work immediately, pulling at Jim’s collar, pulling buttons free with fevered intensity. Fingertips on his bare collarbone spur Jim on to do the same, pulling blindly at Oswald’s tie, thrusting harder, more savagely the longer it takes.

“James, James,” Oswald pants against his lips. Jim finally pulls the tie loose and celebrates by leaning back and pulling his half-opened dress shirt over his head. He means to take the wifebeater off next but Oswald beats him to it, nails scratching at his waist like talons in their haste to remove the cloth.

“Say it,” Jim mutters, moving his attention to the other man’s clothes. “Say it again.” He begins popping buttons without grace, pushing the jacket from Oswald’s shoulders. “I want to hear you fucking say it.” Buttons undone, calloused hands pushing the shirt open and away, revealing pale, trembling flesh.

“Fffff – fuck,” Oswald moans when Jim scrapes blunt nails across his chest. Thumbs press hard into his abdomen, a steady pressure that drags down to the waist of his pants and Oswald convulses when that pressure reaches the V of his hips.

“Fucking Christ,” he whines. His head is thrown back against the arm of the couch, neck one long pale line that Jim can’t help but lean in and taste. Oswald jerks again, senses overloaded as Jim mouths at his neck and presses the heel of his hand against his aching dick.

He thrusts against the hand, little aborted movements that make Jim want to howl. He tries to brace himself, one knee on the couch, one foot on the floor so that he can have both hands free to do what he wants, but he just can’t seem to get the balance right. He growls in frustration, reverberations echoing against Oswald’s skin.

When he pulls back, Oswald freezes. Jim stares down at him, trying to process the roaring in his own head. Everything is moving so fast, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

“Bed,” he rumbles.

Oswald’s jaw drops open. “You… what?” His pale, heaving chest is covered in angry red lines. His neck is wet with saliva and blotched with underdeveloped hickies. His hair is an absolute mess and the tent in his pants is absolutely _obscene_. He looks completely and utterly debauched.

And Jim wants more.

“I want you,” he says slowly, leaning down into Oswald’s face, “in my fucking _bed_.”

Jim swears he can actually _see_ Oswald’s brain completely flat line before there are hands scrabbling at his shoulders and neck, pulling him down to meet a kiss so fierce it makes it makes him throb.

“C’mon,” he says against the other man’s lips. “C’mon.” And he’s pulling away, pulling Oswald up with him. They shuffle awkwardly down the hall, Jim trying to be mindful of Oswald’s legs while simultaneously kissing him senseless. They’re just outside the bedroom door, noses full of the smell of rare flowers when Oswald palms Jim’s cock hard through his pants.

The moan that punches its way out of Jim damn near shakes the walls.

They enter the bedroom in a tangle of limbs. Each man tries desperately to undress the other. Oswald’s jacket and dress shirt hit the floor first, then Jim’s belt. Oswald actually hits the edge of the bed before Jim can finish undoing his pants, so he simply pushes him backwards.

The lights are off, but the room is well lit nonetheless, brightened by the nightlights of Gotham. Jim can see Oswald with crystal clarity; the way he trembles with every touch, the way his hips roll towards him. When he leans over him and puts his hands on the fly of Oswald’s pants, the man actually arches right off the bed.

“Please, James. _Please_.”

Jim’s mouth goes dry as he tugs at the zipper, wasting no time digging his hands beneath the waistband and _pulling_.

He actually doesn’t mean to take everything off in one go. It just sort of happens. One minute Oswald it dressed from the waist down, the next minute he’s splayed naked across Jim’s bed.

“Oh… oh God,” Jim breathes. Oswald stares back at him, completely bare, pinned to the bed by invisible hands, watching Jim ransack his body with his eyes. His hands move with a mind of their own, undoing his own fly. Oswald tracks the movement with his eyes, watching Jim push the pants and underwear off his hips, watching him shift to pull off socks and free his legs.

And then he just stands there, watching the other man, while he runs a hand over his own stomach, over and over and until it drifts to his aching cock.

Oswald makes a sound like he’s dying when Jim starts to stroke himself. The other man’s dick actually jumps, and Jim can see the little pearls of liquid leak out to drip onto that pale stomach. Oswald’s hands are white knuckled in the bedspread.  
“James,” he begs. “Please. Fucking _touch me_.”

And God, how can he resist such a request? He’s on the bed, spread out over Oswald’s body in a heartbeat, hands sliding up over thighs and ribs, lingering over shoulders and neck, thumbs playing at the indent at the base of the throat before one tangles itself in the man’s soft, black hair and the other shoots down to his groin to wrap around his leaking cock.

Oswald yelps and twitches like he’s been shocked, straining against Jim’s heavier body, back arching though his head in anchored in Jim’s unyielding grip.

Jim’s pace is brutal. He strokes Oswald hard and fast, rutting against the man’s thigh even as sucks and bites at the pale jut of bone beneath his throat. The roar is back in his ears, and the pounding of his pulse makes his head hurt, but he doesn’t care. Oswald is writhing and wailing beneath him, thin hands everywhere at once, unsure where to settle. They grip his shoulders, slide over the strong muscle of his back. They gently cup the back of his neck and head, then they slide down past his waist and grab fistfuls of his ass.

It takes him a moment to realize Oswald is actually trying to say words. It’s hard to hear over the sound of sliding flesh and the heavy pants that permeate the room, so Jim pulls his mouth from a reddened collar bone to nip at Oswald’s jaw under the pretense of trying to hear him better.

When he finally hears him, Jim almost comes right then and there.

Its two words, repeated over and over again in delirium. Three, if you counted the occasional prayer of his name, and it fills every corner of the bedroom, every room in his apartment and every nerve in Jim’s brain.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me… James, fuck me. Fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuck - ”

And Jesus Christ, he can’t think. He can’t do anything but push Oswald back, releasing his cock to a cry of protest so he can shuffle awkwardly on his hands and knees to the edge of the bed. He feels an impossibly cool hand slide up over the back of his thigh and over his ass as he leans over to reach the drawer in his bedside table. He’s not prepared for the feeling of teeth biting into glute, however, and he yelps, almost dropping the condom and lubricant he’s found.

He twists, intending to glare over his shoulder but finds what little air he’s got left in his lungs knocked out of him. Oswald, almost glowing in Gotham’s light, looks fucking _wrecked_. The blue of his eyes has been almost entirely erased by the black of his pupils. Almost every inch of his once alabaster skin is red and marred, littered with scratches, hickies and bites. Every trace of malice and menace is gone. He’s been reduced to a desperate young man, a young man who wants nothing more than for Jim to fuck him senseless.

“Jesus, Oswald,” Jim whispers, when the man starts to fist his own cock.

“James,” the man whines in response. His hand speeds up and his hips lift off the bed. “Fuck me, James.”

He damn near cries when Jim swats his hands away from himself and then actually howls when Jim swallows his cock down in one swift movement. He sounds like he’s fucking dying, struggling against the hands that hold down his hips as Jim bob’s his head, the feel of a cock on his tongue, heavy, hot and foreign. The hands that finally find their way to the back of his head scratch through his short hair, making him shiver and moan. He has no finesse. He’s had no practice. Saliva dribbles from his mouth and down the shaft of Oswald’s cock, sliding over his balls and dripping onto the bed.

Jim takes the opportunity and removes one hand from Oswald’s hip to run his fingers through the spit and come pooling at the base of his dick before daring to slide his thumb behind his balls. Oswald’s moans change pitch when Jim presses a dripping thumb against his perineum. The noises get higher and more frantic the farther back he slides his thumb until he feel a circular ridge. He tastes salt then, just a little, on the flat of his tongue, so he presses, dragging the pad of his thumb back and forth across the pucker, feeling completely out of his depth but absolutely reveling in the utter destruction of Oswald Cobblepot.

He’s high on it, moaning around the cock in his mouth, no longer wondering how the hell he got here.

He presses harder against the tight ring of muscle and is rewarded when it gives, allowing his thumb to slide in to the first knuckle. Oswald responds with a sound Jim’s never heard a human make before.

He works at him, determined, sliding his thumb in and out of Oswald’s body while he licks along his length. He can see Oswald’s face now. He’s staring at Jim like he’s never seen him before, like he’s a fucking deity sent down to earth to suck his cock and fuck him till he burns away to nothing. The intensity of it makes Jim’s stomach flop, makes him stop what he’s doing, pull his mouth and hands from Oswald’s body and crawl on his hands and knees to his lips.

“You make me fucking crazy,” he whispers into Oswald’s panting mouth. It sounds more like a plea than a statement, even to Jim’s own ears. Oswald must hear it to, because Jim is suddenly being pulled down again by long, cool hands. And something changes then, in that moment, with that touch, because all at once Jim is back on the sidewalk, bullets whizzing by overhead, pain and fire in his skin, and a body beneath him, pulling him close, to safety.

The kiss is different this time. Jim kisses Oswald like he’s the last source of oxygen in the void.

Oswald kisses Jim like he’ll never have the chance again.

He kisses like he’s in _love_.

It’s too much. It’s too fucking much and Jim whines into the kiss. It’s a long, broken sound; animal in its honesty. Oswald only tightens his grip.

When he rolls them, it comes as a surprise to them both. There’s a burst of sound from the younger man when he finds himself straddling Jim, but it drags out into a moan when hands slide over his thighs and back to his ass.

Jim works with renewed determination, one hand kneading the flesh of Oswald’s ass, and the other rubbing calloused fingertips over his entrance. Oswald responds with breathy little _aaahhhs_ that remind Jim how fucking hard he is, how hard he’s _been_ for weeks.

“Lube,” he gasps between uncoordinated kisses. “Oswald…”

The discreet little tube is being pressed into his chest before he has a chance to repeat his request. Once more, he reluctantly removes his hands from Oswald’s body, but he knows soon they’ll be back, soon it’ll be _so much better_.

“James… James…”

Jim tears his gaze away from his slick fingers to look up at Oswald. Even in the dim light, Jim can see the hint of fear in the lust-blown eyes and it gives him pause.

He struggle to control the tone and pitch of his voice when he says, “Are you sure? We don’t… we don’t have to…”

There’s a split second pause while something else flits across Oswald’s expression. Jim’s not sure what it is, but it makes his breathe catch. The moment meets its end when the younger man slowly, so slowly, wraps long fingers around Jim’s wrists and guides them back to his ass. He’s breathing heavy, and won’t break eye contact.

“I know you won’t hurt me.”

Jim swallows Oswald’s surprised cry when he presses two fingers in deep. The younger man bucks, grinding down and Jim has to readjust, re-positioning himself so that his dick, wet with precome, slides filthily against Oswald’s ass.

“God, Oswald. You feel… you feel so…” Jim grunts in frustration. Words fail him, so he tries to express himself by fingering Oswald faster, focusing on the tight heat of him. “I want to fuck you so bad,” he says without thinking.

Oswald moans long and loud, grinding in earnest now, trying to impale himself on Jim’s fingers. “Please, James… _Please_. Now. I want it… Fuck me. Fuck me _please_ …”

Jim pats blindly at the bedspread with his free hand until his fingers touch foil. Then the little square is between his teeth, and he’s tearing at it with such gusto and lack of coordination he feels like he’s sixteen again, crammed in the backseat of his parents’ station wagon, trying to figure out what goes where.

He arches up and Oswald meets him half way, kissing him deeply while Jim rolls the condom on himself.

“Are you sure?” he whispers into the other mouth, and he knows the question is as much for himself as it is for Oswald. He knows that, if they do this, there will be no going back. Black and white will cease to exist.

The gangster doesn't answer him. Instead, he wraps a hand around the back of Jim’s head and pulls him into another kiss, a softer one this time, trying to say things without making a sound. The hand that wraps around his cock is tentative at first, just a graze, but Jim groans anyway and the hand becomes sure, wrapping around him and guiding him, until – 

When Jim’s cock breaches that ring of muscle, he feels his heart stop. He freezes completely, helpless, powerless to do anything but watch Oswald’s face as the man slides down, inch by slow, agonizing inch, until he’s fully seated, panting and sweating like he’s run a fucking marathon.

“Jesus Christ,” Jim whispers when there’s air in his lungs again. His hands grip Oswald’s hips, his thumbs rubbing over the jut of hipbones, a soothing gesture as much for himself as it is for Oswald. A feeble attempt at grounding himself, lest he simply float away.

“How are you – how does it feel?”

“Full,” is the response, and Oswald’s voice seems so much deeper, like it’s been completely blown out and abused. It makes Jim want to grind up into him, make him scream until that voice is gone completely. But he waits. He knows it has to be Oswald who decides what happens next.

He doesn't have to wait long. “Do it,” he groans, rotating his hips ever so slightly. “Do it, James.” Another rotation. “Fuck me.” And this time he rises, slides himself up Jim’ cock, almost all the way off before he drops down with all his weight and makes Jim see fucking stars.

“You want me to fuck you?” he growls, hands everywhere, and Oswald just nods, frantically, bouncing up and down on Jim’s lap.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he pants. “Fuckmefuckmefuckme…”

But then there’s a wince. Jim catches it right away, even though Oswald tries to cover it up. He keeps moving, faltering only for a second, up and down, up and down…

And there it is again; a split-second flash of pain and Jim is pressing his thumbs into Oswald’s hips so hard he may bruise, chanting, “Stop. Stop stop stop.”

Oswald stutters to a halt, and without the distraction of movement, his carefully constructed features collapse into a grimace.

“Jesus, I’m hurting you,” Jim laments. He’s horrified and tries to lift Oswald off as gently as he can but the other man pushes him flat against the bed with a hand on his chest. 

“No, no you’re not,” he pants, and his right hand twitches, curls into a fist before it settles on his own leg, digging in, running up and down the thigh. “I’m sorry. I – my stupid leg - ”

“Oh, Oswald.” The relief that floods through Jim could wipe whole villages off the map. It’s like a goddamn tsumani, destroying every last structure and wall left. He presses his own hand over the one on Oswald’s leg, and gives it a squeeze.

Then he flips them over.

There’s no moment of respite. Jim pushes and twists until Oswald’s pale legs are wrapped around his waist and then he just starts _hammering_.

Oswald can’t do anything except hold on for dear life and wail at the top of his lungs. Jim keeps one protective hand over Oswald’s bad leg and the other tangled in his hair. He fucks into him like the world will end any minute, like Gotham is burning around them. Oswald’s nails bite into Jim’s back and shoulders, but the pain only makes him drive deeper, until he’s rewarded with a blast of profanity with every thrust.

“ _Fuck_ James, James, James… I’m so… I’m so…”

The hand on the thigh remains, while the one in Oswald’s hair moves to his cock. The man keens, and bucks like he’s being electrocuted, but Jim doesn’t stop. He jerks him quickly, without finesse, trying to keep his balance, trying to keep some kind of rhythm.

“Oh God. Oh God! FuckfuckfuckfuckJames _fuuuuaaahhhhh_!”

Oswald’s whole body arches right off the bed. He comes hard and wet over Jim’s fist, pulsing endlessly. His ass clenches spastically around Jim’s cock, and he’s not sure if that’s what does it, or the way Oswald is looking at him now, fucked out and ruined. Maybe it’s the police siren crying in the distance, but Jim shoves into Oswald just once, twice… and he’s coming so hard he almost whites out.

Jim collapses on top of Oswald, taking care not to crush his bad leg. It’s a solid minute of heavy breathing and slowing heart rates before Jim feels that hand in his hair again. Everything that happened within the last forty-eight hours hits him all over again.  
“You saved me,” be breathes against Oswald’s shoulder and the arms encompassing him get a little tighter.

“I told you I would never let anything happen to you,” is the response after a beat. A thumb glides across his forehead, skirting the edge of the bandage. “It seems I lied. I’m sorry, James.”

Jim has to look, then. He turns his head to find Oswald watching him, an expression so honest and stricken that Jim has to kiss him, anything to smooth the tension from his brow. “I’ll find them,” he says between kisses. “I’ll find them and I’ll make sure they never come after you, or anyone else again.”

“I appreciate the thought, James. But… you won’t find them.”

The statement hangs in the quiet room, echoing over the sounds of their heartbeats. Jim breathes in and out, letting the meaning sink in while Oswald continues to play with his hair. His hand slides over the other man’s chest to touch his throat and Oswald hums happily, pressing a chaste kiss to a safe spot on Jim’s forehead.

There is no more black and white any more. There is only grey and the oath that Jim Gordon will never hurt Oswald Cobblepot.

There is only the certainty that Oswald Cobblepot will always do anything and everything in his power to protect Jim Gordon.

And that is a _promise_.


End file.
